The Little Old Lady Behaving Badly Read online

  “Well, then, Dream Village,” she went on. “We could start with a restaurant. That would be stage one, and we’d do all the rest later.”

  “Restaurant? That’s a good idea,” Christina chipped in and looked happy. “It could be called the Penshy Restaurant, ‘Penshy’ as in ‘pensioners,’ and be especially adapted for the elderly. Lots of fruit, organic ingredients and all that.”

  “Yes, real Gray Panthers’ food,” Martha added.

  “A beef casserole would be nice,” said Rake. “And the restaurant should be called The Texan Ranger.”

  “Or why not the Easy-to-Chew Restaurant?” Brains suggested, and gave Rake a little prod. The men grinned.

  “That’s enough, Brains!” protested Martha. “Now we can sit down and talk this through.” She pointed at a green-painted bench not too far away.

  “I can go along with sitting on a bench,” said Brains.

  The League of Pensioners sat down on the bench and got their breath back. From here, they had a view of Germania Bay and the luxury villas along Strandvägen. By the waterside you could see one or two embassies and some tall old houses of several stories. When Anna-Greta was a child here, and had been a pupil in the local school, teachers, librarians and florists could afford to live in the old idyllic villa district. Now the town was a haven for the rich.

  “Do you remember those horrible microwave meals they served at the Diamond House retirement home?” Christina asked.

  “Oh yes, what an insult to us elderly!” replied Anna-Greta.

  “Now we ought to arrange something that is top quality instead!” Christina took out her powder compact, flipped open the mirror and touched up her lipstick. She thought best when she was doing her makeup, and she used to always claim that to be so when the others complained because she was forever fussing with her appearance. But it had been quite a while since she had had a facelift, so it was really important to get it right with her lipstick and powder. “We shall serve excellent gourmet food in a restaurant where you feel at home. Just imagine if we could find suitable premises close to the water and with a nice view too.”

  “That’s smart, Christina, smart indeed,” said Anna-Greta. “I know, Hornsberg Strand on Kungsholmen. There was once an asphalt works and a brewery there, but now the area has been cleared and sanitized. They probably still have sites for sale. From there, you can look out across the water.”

  “Hornsberg Strand, what a good idea,” exclaimed Martha.

  “Yes, and there are empty premises that still haven’t been rented out,” Anna-Greta went on. “We could try to get a contract for one of those buildings.”

  Martha took a pen and a notepad out of her waist bag.

  “If we’re going to open a restaurant, then we must make sure we get lots of guests. Do you have an idea for a good theme?”

  They all thought it was fun to develop the idea, and while they looked at the gulls flying over the water, they discussed various themes and Martha made notes. When they had finished, the notepad was full of her jottings. She looked up.

  “Well, do you want to hear what our dream restaurant should look like?”

  They all nodded, and even Rake looked expectant. Martha thumbed through her notes and read out loud:

  “All the staff should have a decent wage and employment conditions and the premises should be easily accessible for wheeled walkers and wheelchairs—”

  “And even for those using walking sticks,” Anna-Greta chipped in.

  They all nodded.

  “It should be a quiet restaurant without background music. But to please everybody, there should be earphones at every table just like in an airplane so that those who wanted to could listen to their favorite artist,” Martha went on.

  “Good. Then those who are hard of hearing have the volume as high as they want,” Anna-Greta added.

  “There should be a mixer at every table so that if something is too hard to chew, you only need to drop the bits of meat in and press a button,” Brains contributed.

  There was sudden silence and they all looked at Brains to see if he was joking. But since he looked so serious, they all smiled and nodded.

  “And it would be all right if there isn’t too much noise,” added Anna-Greta, who had difficulty hearing in noisy environments. “And the food shouldn’t swim in sauce any old way.”

  “Great,” said Martha turning the page in her notepad. “Incidentally, Christina, I like your suggestion here. The idea that the restaurant should have a dating table for singles.”

  “Exactly, a dating table for people on their own. They could be widows or widowers, and, of course, elderly bachelors and spinsters,” she said and looked pleased. “They should have comfortable chairs and spicy, erotic food. And on the table there should be only one salt shaker and only one pepper shaker so that the guests will have to ask each other to pass them across. A neat idea, right?”

  “Perfect, Christina.” Martha nodded.

  “What a good idea,” Anna-Greta agreed, now being single again. “And we could have speed dating on certain evenings in the week. Every dinner guest gets a number on a card that we put into a glass bowl. Then we draw two numbers now and then, and the numbers that come up get to date each other,” she brainstormed, with a dreamy look crossing her face. Anna-Greta had tired of her boyfriend Gunnar since he only talked computers and work all the time but knew nothing when it came to general knowledge. Life wasn’t just mathematics and information technology. There was something called art, music and literature too. Culture. But all he knew besides figures were the names of the players in his favorite soccer team, AIK, and when Brynäs had won in ice hockey. She snorted to herself. No, she would have to get a new man in her life and why not start by dating at their own Penshy Restaurant?

  “And the restaurant shall have Sweden’s best chefs and waiters, of course, but we shall only employ the elderly,” Martha went on.

  “We ought to have some younger waitresses though,” Rake interjected and Brains nodded in agreement. A brief discussion ensued, but they settled on a compromise where the employees should preferably be sixty plus. But they wouldn’t write that down on paper because it might not comply with equality legislation and would thus risk being labeled age discrimination. And there could be exceptions to their rule, so younger people could be accepted in certain cases, said Martha with emphasis to mollify the men.

  “What about the food?” Martha asked, happy that they all seemed to be committed to the idea.

  “I want traditional Swedish dishes like oven-baked pancakes with pieces of sliced pork and with cranberry jelly,” said Rake, glancing at the inn close by. He was starting to feel hungry.

  “No, we ought to be modern with vegetarian, health food and organic,” Christina announced.

  “I won’t go into a restaurant that doesn’t have meatballs, stuffed cabbage rolls, Swedish sausage and mashed root,” Brains protested.

  “Of course we shall have the best food,” Anna-Greta agreed. “And we can call the restaurant Gourmet Serenity.”

  “But if we’re going to open a restaurant, then we’ll have to work. And it is high time to start!” Christina concluded.

  8

  THE DINING HALL’S GRAY WALLS, THE LONG SHABBY TABLES and the bleached, grayish-green curtains in the windows felt very 1950s and weren’t a bit homey. But in the high-security prison, interior decoration wasn’t a priority; what counted here was incarceration. Some of Sweden’s most dangerous prisoners were locked up here and money was spent on alarms and barbed wire rather than comfort.

  It was time for today’s lunch and some of the inmates went up to the counter and helped themselves to fried herring and mashed potatoes. Others chose venison steak and cranberry sauce, while most of them took pizza. The fluorescent lamps flashed and the sound of silverware and scraping chairs mixed with expletives and laughter. There was more noise than usual. Sweden had just won a qualifying match in soccer and they all tried to talk above the noise.

&
nbsp; Kenta Udd glanced at the TV and looked around at the others in the hall. Jeans, tattoos and grim countenances. They had long criminal records, every one of them. He himself had been in and out of prison many times and was beginning to tire of life behind bars. He always thought like that when he was inside, but unfortunately he had a tendency to end up in bad company when he was released, and soon he was back in again. Because he was a large and muscular man, he was popular in criminal circles. He was good at fighting and he made people pay their debts. The problem was that he sometimes hit too hard and then he would be sentenced for serious bodily harm. But now he had got to know a girl on the Internet. She seemed really decent and they had met a few times when he had been out on day leave. If only he could break free of the criminal world and lead an ordinary everyday life instead . . . open a workshop to repair cars, or a pizzeria or something like that. The girl knew her way around a kitchen and the idea of a pizzeria was attractive. Perhaps they could open one together. A roar could be heard from the TV and Kenta looked up.

  “Fucking hell, what a goal! Zlatan’s overhead kick, wow!” was heard from one of the gang.

  “Not bad, but he’s getting really lousy passes,” ventured a guy Kenta didn’t recognize. A newcomer.

  “Well, what of it, he can’t just stand there waiting for the ball. He’s got to make a bit of an effort too!” Kenta chipped in, burping loudly as he got up. He liked food, and waddled across to the counter for a second helping. He glanced at the trays and even though he knew it would be better to down some meat or fish, he took the pizza. Two large calzones to round off his lunch, nice one. He was just about to sit down again when he felt an elbow dig into his ribs.

  “Hey, mate, Zlatan’s great, don’t groan about him!” The newcomer, a weasel-like guy in his thirties, gave him a penetrating look. The inmate, who had only been there a few days, had a muscular body and was tattooed so far up on his throat that you could see it above his T-shirt.

  “But he’s fucking lazy, right?”

  “Nope, he’s one of the best soccer players in the world. OK?”

  “OK, OK. All right he is,” muttered Kenta and sat down again. The weasel followed and sat down next to him. The guy had a sharp, inquisitive gaze. Short hair, blonde and sticking out, and he had a ring in his ear.

  “I’m Johan. Johan Tanto,” he said and held out his hand. “But most people call me Weasel. I used to play soccer.”

  “Oh, fuck. I’m Kenta, Kenta Udd,” Kenta responded and looked at the newcomer. Yes, the guy had a very suitable nickname, that was for sure. Weasel was so thin and wirey that he could have slithered through any concrete pipe. But he had plenty of muscles, too.

  “Been here long?” he asked.

  “A few years, release in a month.”

  “Why did the cops lock you up?”

  “Fucking bad luck.”

  “Ah, come off it. What did they get you for?”

  “Coke and drugs, well, you know,” Kenta answered evasively.

  “The usual, then. We get the cola for the upper classes, but we are the ones who pay for it.” Weasel wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “And you?”

  “Roughed up a guy a little too much. He didn’t pay, the bastard—a restaurant thing . . .”

  “Ah, extortion and protection racket?”

  “If you don’t fork out, you’ve only got yourself to blame. But the guy refused and I lost it.” Weasel gobbled up his food and went on talking with his mouth full. “The guy started getting belligerent so in the end I gave him a free facelift. Didn’t notice the camera.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “You should’ve seen him. I thought the fucking bastard had died.” Weasel suddenly looked serious. “I’ll fucking have to cool it a little.”

  Kenta gave him an inquisitive look, sliced up a large wedge of a calzone and opened wide. But the piece was too big and he started coughing. “How many years did you get, then?”

  “Four, but no way am I fucking sitting here that long.”

  “Hard to get out of the place.” Kenta Udd tried again with the pizza and took a smaller bite this time.

  “There’s day leave, isn’t there? Not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’m going to rot away inside. But you’ll be out soon, right? Got anything lined up?”

  “Thought I’d open a pizzeria. Launder money. But difficult getting the permits and all that.”

  “Pizzeria?” Silence reigned for a few moments while Weasel observed him. “So, restaurant and protection?” He got up to fetch some more food but stopped with the plate in his hand. “Tell you what, if you can get me out of here, then I’ll help you. There won’t be any incendiaries or any of that shit. I promise. Think about it.”

  Kenta eyed him a long time. Weasel seemed to be a man of action who knew what he wanted, a guy who got things to happen. Perhaps he was a mate you ought to stay on good terms with. If he helped him get out of the clink, he himself might be able to return to a normal life at last. Because as an ex-con it wasn’t easy to return to a life among ordinary folk; certainly not if you wanted to go into the restaurant business. If he kept on the right side of Weasel, then he might get protection.

  9

  CHIEF INSPECTOR PER JÖBACK SAT LEANING OVER HIS COMPUTER playing Candy Crush. Occasionally amusing himself with video games was his way of clearing his brain. It allowed his gray cells to work in peace, and then he would find new ways to approach difficult cases. By now he had become quite advanced and he played at least an hour a day. It was amazing that he had become so fascinated by a video game! His friends said that he had become a Candy Crush abuser, but he categorically dismissed all such insinuations. In his most crazed periods, he did, however, wonder if it was the same sort of kick you got from heroin, but he didn’t dare express that thought out loud. No, he had total control; that much was certain! Suddenly he heard steps out in the corridor followed by a firm knocking on the door. Reluctantly, he looked up.

  “Come in!”

  “You’ve got a visitor,” announced his colleague, Jungstedt. “It’s him again.”

  “Not Blomberg, surely?”

  “Yes, the very same, and he has some pastries with him.”

  “Say that I’m not in!”

  “Too late. Enjoy yourself!” Jungstedt grinned and a few moments later Blomberg stood in the door with a broad smile on his face. Chief Inspector Ernst Blomberg had been one of the police IT experts but had recently retired. There were many stories about him. It was said that he had admittedly been a skilled hacker but unfortunately less competent as a boss. When he became a retiree, he received the usual retirement gifts, but nobody had missed him since he left. Some officers did, however, feel sorry for the old guy since he had lost a large fortune with bad investments and now lived in a small studio in Sundbyberg with a small pension. He tried to improve his situation with freelance work, visiting the country’s police stations and offering them his services. He could hardly survive on his pension.

  “How nice to see you, Jöback,” Blomberg began, fishing out a coffee Thermos from his shoulder bag (always when he came visiting, Jöback said that the coffee machine was broken, so this time he had brought coffee with him). “I’m not disturbing you, am I? I’ve got some good old-fashioned coffee with me today, so we can enjoy that!” He patted the Thermos and laughed heartily. “Well, how are things with you today?”

  “Fine thank you, although we have too much to do,” complained Jöback, but he regretted it the very same moment.

  “Then you might need some extra help? I’ve got a lot of experience and I still keep up with developments in the IT sector. Just let me know. Perhaps I can hack some computers for you?”

  “Thank you, good for us to know, but for the time being our budget won’t allow it.”

  “But what about the Nordea bank robbery? You could do with some extra help there. How’s it going, got any leads?”

  “That’s a tricky case, an international gang, but we’re
cooperating with Interpol. Nasty business when the mafia comes to Sweden.”

  “The mafia? I don’t think so. That lot are ordinary bank robbers. Why would international gangs come to little Sweden? No, they can get much bigger hauls abroad.”

  “You’re wrong there, Blomberg. Remember the Military League? They robbed small banks out in country towns. What we’ve got here is a gang that concentrates on small countries instead.”

  “Well, who knows! But help yourself to some pastries. Straight from the oven. It’s surprising what one can do as a retiree. I have even planted flowers and started to grow vegetables.” Blomberg gave a big smile, opened the bag of pastries and put it on the table. Jöback had a sweet tooth and Blomberg knew that.

  The chief inspector hesitated. If he indulged in the pastries, then Blomberg would certainly come back even more often. He must unfortunately abstain.

  “Regrettably, I must think of my figure!” was his excuse.

  “Oh, go on! Be daring! Don’t say that I have baked in vain. I was really looking forward to coffee and cakes with you, and to discussing the latest cases. Perhaps I could give you a fresh new angle which might be the lead you need. Yes, help you, quite simply. I’ve quite a lot of experience to draw upon. It is so nice to sit here again and chat to old colleagues.” With a big smile, Blomberg took a first bite of one of the larger cakes.

  It will take him at least fifteen minutes to finish that cake, and I can hardly shoo him out with a half-eaten cake in his hand, Jöback thought. Meanwhile, his mouth was watering. He had worked without a break, he needed a cup of coffee and the smell of Blomberg’s cakes was really getting to him. Perhaps he could take a little bit, after all. Just a tidbit, a few crumbs.

  “Well, have a cup of coffee at the very least,” Blomberg insisted, setting out two plastic mugs he had brought with him, and unscrewing the top of the Thermos. Then he poured out the coffee and gave Jöback a cup. “Classic strong coffee and hot as can be!”